


Our Soul is Made of Stardust and Gold

by DragonBandit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Missing Scene, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-30 13:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20448041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: Angels are made in pairs. Demons fall in pairs.All except for Crowley and Aziraphale.





	Our Soul is Made of Stardust and Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greygerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/gifts).

**“Well that went down like a lead balloon.”**

The first time they meet—calling it the first time is only accurate in that it’s the first time the angel Aziraphale meets the demon Crawly—sparks fly. Not literal sparks of course. Even for angels and demons such things would be considered a tad excessive. Perhaps especially for demons and angels, who were made before God had developed a taste for theatrics. 

Nevertheless, metaphorical sparks had been felt by both parties. The rest of that fated conversation about good, and evil, and flaming swords was put on hold as angel regarded demon and uttered a name that has since gone the way of the library of Alexandria. 

The demon squirmed. “It’s Crawly now.” 

The angel Aziraphale’s mouth turned down in distaste. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

“No. I know. Maybe that’s the point.” 

There was a pause, filled with an uncomfortable conversation that neither of them knew how to start. 

Eventually Crawly, after giving Aziraphale a thorough once over, said, “Say, didn’t you used to have a flaming sword?” 

And what followed after, was history. 

* * *

**“Lovely Nebula. I helped build that one.”**

Aziraphale has a galaxy of stars picked out in black ink across the entirety of his back. Once upon a time they had been gold and silver, but then an angel had sauntered vaguely downward and both of them had burned. 

* * *

**“Why don’t I tempt you—Ah no. That’s your job, isn’t it.” **

It is not that Aziraphale means to fraternise with the demon Crowley. It’s just that there aren’t many angels stationed on Earth these days and as lovely as humans are there is something quite delightful about dining with another being who knows about the great ineffable plan and heaven and hell not only in theory but in practice as well. 

It doesn’t help that Crowley is so very charming when he wants to be. Why, there are days that start with a late breakfast at one of those new restaurants that keep popping up in Rome with Crowley picking at Aziraphale’s plate when he thinks the angel isn’t looking and ends when the lamplighters are putting out the streetlights for a new dawn; Crowley yawning and complaining of missing his much-needed beauty sleep.

Aziraphale laughs, “That is very prideful, and slothful of you, my boy.”

“I am a demon, Aziraphale,” Crowly returns. He bats his eyes, smiling under the slitted, reptillian yellow that reveal his true nature. 

Aziraphale blinks, the smile falling off of his face. “Well. Yes, I suppose that is the case.” he says, rueful. 

Crowley is still smiling at him, “You didn’t forget now, did you angel?” 

“Of course not! As if I could forget something like that.” It just hadn’t mattered, the significance of what that meant had faded. Lost in the joy of spending time with Crowley. 

Guilt is an unwelcome partner in his chest, when Aziraphale goes home by himself that night. Surely someone, someday, will find out about all this… fraternizing going on between him and the demon that he is meant to be thwarting. Dear lord, what will Gabriel say? What would She say? 

But even as he mulls it over, over a nice glass of house brown and a good scroll, Aziraphale always comes back to the same small response. “You can’t blame me can you? He’s half of me. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s fallen, we’re still two halves of the same being.” 

Most likely Gabriel would turn up his nose, and do something unspeakable to one of them. Best not to mention it. 

He wonders what that means, that half of his soul is a demon. The answer is the same as it always is. It must be part of the ineffable plan. Aziraphale’s role is not to question it, merely to follow out his part in the great dance that is the universe. 

Nevertheless. Perhaps a few decades where he doesn’t see quite so much of Crowley would be a good idea. Just in case someone up there is watching. 

* * *

**“I’m… soft…”**

Along Crowley’s skin are fault lines of gold. Angelic stretch marks across his thighs and stomach that he never grew into. When he falls, he expects them to change. Burn until black soot obscures the gold, turn obsidian, become open sores and cut marks on his too-fragile skin. They don’t. 

He’s not sure what that means. 

* * *

**“There is no our side! I don’t--I don’t even like you!”**

“You do,” Crowley hisses, spinning around to glare at Aziraphale through his shades. “You have to like me, half of me’s you!”

Aziraphale goes pale, and then pink with anger. He pulls himself tall, pulling on the lapels of his jacket. “Even if I did know where the antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you! We’re on opposite sides.” 

Crowley forgets, always does. For Aziraphale, they can be angels or demons, or they can be soulmates. They can’t be both. Obviously, Crowley had been wrong as to what identity was more important. 

He tries regardless, “We’re on our side.” 

“There is no our side, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over.” 

Of course they’d never talked about it. There had always been that chasm of unspoken words between the two of them, but Crowley had always thought that those words had been the same. The conversation said but still known. 

Obviously, he had been wrong about that too. 

Fine. That’s fine. That’s absolutely fine. Crowley will be long gone before the war starts. He’ll be up in the stars, or on another planet, or maybe he’ll carve out a niche for himself in the space between electrons. Earth will burn. Heaven will burn, Hell will burn. Aziraphale will burn. Half of his soul up in flames just like that and there’s nothing Crowley can do to stop it. But Crowley will stay, high and dry, far away from all of this nonsense. 

“Well then... Have a nice doomsday.”

* * *

**“Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.”**

“Do you think it means something?” Crowley asks once. The bookshop sofa is delightfully squishy against his back, and the wine glass he holds loosely in his hands perpetually refills itself with only minor effort on his part. He and Aziraphale have been drinking for oh… days, by this time. Maybe a week. He doesn’t know, so he’s well and truly sloshed. 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale says, from somewhere on the floor. He’s doing as well as Crowley is. “What means what?”

“This. Us. The whole bloody, to do with it all.” Crowley waves a hand around aimlessly. 

“Well of course, it means something. Everything’s part of the plan.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Do you think we get to find out what that plan actually is?”

“Whole point is that it’s ineffable,” Aziraphale says mournfully. “Not for the likes of you or me.” 

“Doesn’t seem much fair, when we’re the ones who have to live with it.” Crowley says. He takes a sip of wine, pouring most of the aged red vintage over his shirt. “She’s not the one who has to make heads and tails of how to live with it. She’s not the demon with half his soul in an angel.” He gives Aziraphale a considering look, and adds, “Or the one angel in all creation sharing bits of himself with a demon.” 

“What is there to work out?” Aziraphale asks. 

“I don’t know.” Crowley answers. 

Even now the yawning void between them, of what they need to say and can’t. Crowley’s chest aches as he slams himself up against it. 

“But there has to be something, doesn’t there?” he continues anyway. “Something that we’re missing.” 

Aziraphale hums. He says, voice considering, “You know,” and Crowley’s treacherous heart leaps, “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”

* * *

**“I just lost my best friend.”**

Aziraphale decides, sometime between leaving heaven, and finding Crowley, that he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks anymore. 

Armageddon is coming unless he and Crowley can stop it. He has spent over six thousand years holding his soulmate at arms length for what? For pride? For loyalty to a group of people that don’t deserve it? Out of fear of what could happen? Hurtling through the world, without a body, drawn inexorably to one singular place, it all feels just a bit silly. 

He isn’t surprised when he hears Crowley’s voice when the universe stops spinning. Of course this is where he’d end up. Of course. 

Crowley is his soulmate. 

He wishes that it had not taken him until Armageddon to admit it. 

* * *

**“Let the wheel of fate turn. Let hearts enjoin. There are other fires than mine. When the whirlwind whirls, -reach out to one another.** **”**

In the stolen second between madness and Armageddon, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale clutches it tight. 

If this is how they die, at least this time they’ll do it together. As it should be. 

* * *

**“Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?”**

**“Temptation accomplished.”**

They don’t talk about it. 

Crowley meets Aziraphale in the park, and feeds bread to the ducks. Together they dine at the Ritz. They go back to the shop, arm in arm where they drink some more. Sometimes Crowley tempts Aziraphale back to bed with him for a lovely mid afternoon nap. More often Aziraphale opens up the shop and together they make sure not a single book is sold. 

Crowley still drives too fast in the Bentley but this time Aziraphale sits next to him, and tries to get the radio to play anything other than Queen. So far he has yet to manage it, but they have the rest of eternity to figure it out. 

They don’t talk about. 

They never will. They don’t need to. 


End file.
